"Reminds me," Cashman said, daubing at his mouth and sipping at his wine, " 'fore we depart, we'll ask Jean-Pierre for some coffee and cocoa beans. Saint Domingue coffee is as good as anything from Brazil, and their cocoa's sweeter an' mellower, too. Mix it with what ya have already-one-to-two-and you'll think you're in Heaven. It may be dear, what with the crops not bein' tended much since their slaves rose up, but worth it, if they have any."
"Dearer than what Jamaican chandlers ask?" Lewrie frowned.
" 'Bout half, I'd think," Cashman told him, pausing to savour a bite. "Hard to believe they're Samboes… ain't it?"
"Who? Our hostlers?" Lewrie asked.
"Them… and our servin' girls," Cashman told him, winking.
"They are?" Lewrie said, amazed. "But they look so…"
"Petits blancs need love, too, Alan," Cashman drolly snickered. "Most real Whites've fled to Havana or Charleston, even New Orleans." He seemed delighted by Lewrie's surprised look. "Those who stayed are mostly half-castes… brights, fancies, quadrons or octoroons, what are lumped into the catchall term Mulatto, hereabouts. Some of them owned plantations, sent their children to school in Paris before the war. Rich as the grands blancs… richer! But that don't signify, either. 'Tis pure White blood, the guinea-stamp round here. Remember I told you how the French divided folk by grades of White or Black? There're one hundred and twenty-eight diff rent gradations-s'truth! Get into marabous and sacatras, maybe three-quarters or more White, and you couldn't say one way or t'other, even in broad daylight. But even a sang-mйlй, with one part Black blood to a hundred-twenty-seven White, is still a Sambo to them. Vivienne an' Henriette, they're high marabous, maybe low sacatras. And still get the short end of the stick, 'cause their folks weren't rich, or landed, or much of anything, 'cept imitation petits blancs. And the worst part for them is…"
Cashman paused for dramatic effect, and a sip of his wine.
"The real darkies off the fields, the ones in L'Ouverture's regiments, think the same way about 'em, d'ye see," Cashman said, with an air of grim foreboding. "They look too White for one camp, but they're too… tainted with the tar-brush for t'other. Lovely place, Saint Domingue, ain't it," he sarcastically drawled.
"So what happens to 'em, if Port-Au-Prince falls to L'Ouverture and his laddies?" Lewrie asked.
"World turned upside down," Cashman tossed off, as if it were no worry of his. "The too White'll get knackered, and all the rest'll be allowed to kowtow and join up with L'Ouverture. Make their salaams, bang their heads on the floor, and live-on the bottom of Society, mind. And a poor'un it'll be, you mark my words. Take 'em a century t'turn this island back to a payin' proposition. Jean-Pierre, well… by God, but this is a marvelous rйmoulade, don't ya think, Alan?"
"Aye, 'tis," Lewrie agreed, a trifle impatient for Cashman to complete his statements, though. "But what about 'im?"
"Oh, he'll most-like have a schooner lined up for a quick getaway," Cashman speculated with another blasй shrug. "Does he stay, he might do alright… 'less they scrag him for profiteerin', when other folks were starvin'. God knows which side'll do that… L'Ouverture's as an example, or them that starved, for revenge. Now, does he cut an' run with all his goods and money, he could set up fresh in the United States. Savannah, Charleston, New Orleans… they all have so-called Creole citizens… under 'Polite' Society, o'course. Take the lightest girls along, and reopen a bordello? Some o' them could lie like Blazes, and swear they were grands blancs all the way back to Adam… pass for White, d'ye see. Ah, our omelettes!"
In came Jacques and the girls to remove the now-empty plates, recharge wineglasses, and deliver steaming "piss-runny" French style egg dishes-with more subtle bumping and lingering touches.
Lewrie studied Henriette more closely. The only hints of difference he could discern were a slightly olive cast to her flawless complexion, and very full lips. Her dark red hair, though curlier, did not appear to be hennaed, and her green-hazel eyes would not have been out of place in the Germanies.
"Somezing is wrong, M'sieur Capitaine Lewrie?" she asked, feeling the intensity of his scrutiny; perhaps resenting it as a prejudice on his part, he wondered?
"In no way, Mademoiselle Henriette," he answered, smiling more broadly, adding a touch of "leer" to dispel her wariness. "I was just captivated… utterly dumbstruck… by how lovely you are."
"You are too kind, m'sieur," Henriette purred back, her lashes fluttering most fetchingly as she leaned down a bit, allowing a promisingly soft breast to compress against his epaulet. "But delightful to hear."
"You do not object?" he dared to tease.
"Mais non, Capitaine Lewrie, " Henriette replied, lowering her eyelids. "A poor girl always enjoy the compliments."
"And you, Henriette," Lewrie muttered, leaning back in his seat to look up at her from even closer. "Are you kind?"
"La, I can be trиs kind, Capitaine Lewrie," she whispered, all but in his ear, letting her loosely gathered hair brush his shoulder. "If you wish, that is," she added, with that secret smile that women make when being sultrily coy. "You would like, n'est-ce pas?"
Hell's Bells, we're doin' it on the table? Lewrie wondered to himself, as he caught sight of Cashman and Vivienne from the corner of his eye; Kit already had his wench in his lap, one hand groping about up her skirt, and sharing a soul kiss with her.
He turned back to Henriette, who wore a leer of her own after seeing what was transpiring across the table. Lewrie gently reached up and took hold of her chin to steer her lips to his, enfired by her warmth and the womanly aromas beneath her exotic, flowery perfume.
"Very much… very bloody much." Lewrie chuckled deep in his throat, feeling her lips grinning against his mouth in agreement.
"Later, mon cher?" Henriette silently sounded against him.
"Later, chйrie… plus tard!"'
"Certainement, cher Alain," she breathed against his cheek, a moment before Vivienne gave out a yip as Cashman play-spanked her on the bottom and shooed them out.
How long's it been since I've had a whore? he asked himself; Phoebe Aretino? No, don't count. She was a mistress. Gawd, Calcutta and Canton… way back in '84?
Cashman, smugly stuffing himself with a huge smile of anticipation, and slurping lustily at his wines, made Lewrie wonder if their dining chamber would have to serve amour's purpose. It was dimly lit with only a few candles, the drapes heavy and drawn, the windows iron-barred, the wainscoting and overhead beams made of dark wood that ate what little light the candles threw. There were several settees, and a pair of chaise longues along the walls. It could have been a seraglio in a sultan's harem-one of his oldest and most enduring fantasies-but it was a rather seedy, close and stuffy seraglio, with not a breath of air stirring. Much as he liked Kit, this was…
"They have rooms t'let, I s'pose?" Lewrie asked, finally. "Nice'uns, too," Cashman said with an enigmatic leer. "There's some don't wait, but I never thought of it as a spectator sport. Bad as mountin' yer filly in the middle o' Lord's cricket grounds. Try a glass o' hock with your eggs. There's a touch o' cinnamon to it that goes main-tasty with 'em, even better than champagne, t'my thinkin'."